


The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes

by TardisIsTheOnlyWayToTravel



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: A bit meta, Crack, Gen, Humour, Season/Series 01, narrative destiny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-04
Updated: 2013-06-04
Packaged: 2017-12-13 22:51:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/829777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TardisIsTheOnlyWayToTravel/pseuds/TardisIsTheOnlyWayToTravel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After googling Sherlock's name during A Study In Pink, John discovers that the two of them are apparently fictional characters destined to fight crime together. Awkwardness ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes

**Author's Note:**

> *giggles a bit* So, uh, ages ago, I was going through the BBC Sherlock kink meme (I think?) and I saw a comment that inspired a fantastic plot bunny. I took a screen cap and saved it as an image in my fic folder to work on the fic later. I started it, but lost inspiration for a while.
> 
> Anyway, I've been working on it lately, and decided to post it as part of earlgreytea68's [AU Ficathon of Absurdity](http://earlgreytea68.livejournal.com/420191.html) . So here you go.
> 
> The screencap of the original comment that inspired the fic can be viewed [here](http://i267.photobucket.com/albums/ii319/purpledragonblog/sherlockbbc_thread.png) .

It’s not an easy subject to bring up, it really isn’t, and John feels like an idiot even as he mentions it. For all he knows, it’s all part of a practical joke, or something.

Except that he knows it isn’t. His visit to the public library confirmed that much.

“So,” John says; his way of easing into it cautiously. “I googled you last night.”

“Oh?” Sherlock’s expression is one of studied disinterest.

“Yeah.” John clears his throat. “You haven’t ever heard of someone called Arthur Conan Doyle, have you?”

Sherlock stares at him blankly.

“What?”

“Right. Well. Um. I’m not really sure how to tell you this, but, uh… Apparently, and I found this hard to believe myself, but the evidence it all there, apparently we’re famous fictional characters destined to fight crime together.” There, he’s said it. It sounds even more ridiculous out loud than it did in John’s head.

“What?” Sherlock is staring at John like he’s mad, or possibly playing some kind of prank Sherlock hasn’t sussed out yet.

In response John opens his backpack, and pulls out the copy of _The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes_ he borrowed from the library this morning, and shows it to Sherlock.

Sherlock’s eyes widen at the sight of his name on the front cover and he snatches it from John’s hands.

Watching the succession of faces Sherlock pulls as he examines the book and proceeds to flip through it is both entertaining, and a validation that John isn’t mad, and something strange is most definitely going on here.

Sherlock slams the book shut and turns to read the blurb again, his expression somewhere between outraged and deeply disturbed.

“I mean, I always knew there was some literary character named Dr John Watson,” John adds helpfully, unperturbed by Sherlock’s intimidating silence, “people used to laugh when I introduced myself sometimes, you know, but I never really paid much attention.”

Sherlock just stares at the book looking simultaneously like someone somewhere has just betrayed him, and as though all of a sudden whole inexplicable elements of his life suddenly make a horrible kind of sense.

It’s similar to the expression that John was wearing at one o’clock this morning, so he just sits patiently and waits for Sherlock to acclimatise. Their lives, he suspects, have just gotten infinitely weirder.

John can’t help but find it exciting, though. He’s pretty sure there must be something wrong with him, but, well, if what he reads online is any guide, he’s probably in good company there.

* * *

Sherlock goes into something of a rage about the whole thing. If John were twenty years younger and hadn’t fought in a war he’d probably find Sherlock terrifying, but as it is he sits calmly and apologises to the landlady as Sherlock emphatically loses it.

After a bit of shouting in John’s direction Sherlock pulls out a phone and yells at someone else instead: the name ‘Mycroft’ appears in his ranting, several times. John remembers the name from Wikipedia – he’s pretty sure it’s the name of Sherlock’s elder brother, if the book series got it right. 

He interrupts a long string of insults towards the unfortunate man on the other end of Sherlock’s phone, to make sure.

“Is that your brother?” he asks, as Sherlock pauses to draw breath.

“How do you know about my brother?” Sherlock demands, eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“Wikipedia,” John explains succinctly.

Sherlock looks vaguely nonplussed, torn between further anger and smug glee, as far as John can tell.

There’s a murmur of sound from Sherlock’s phone.

“Dr John Watson,” Sherlock replied grudgingly, glaring at the air in front of him. “Yes, he fought in Afghanistan – Mycroft–”

But apparently Mycroft has decided that he’s let Sherlock’s yelling go on long enough, because Sherlock goes quiet and listens, scowling darkly the whole time.

He hangs up abruptly, with a face like a thundercloud.

“This is _insufferable,_ ” he growls at John, and sits and silently seethes for several minutes.

“What did he say?” John inquires, after a moment’s tactful silence.

“ _Apparently_ it’s all real,” Sherlock says reluctantly, “Mycroft says that he’s been using it to monitor my life for some years now – much of it is incorrect, the time period for one, but there’s a… certain amount of accuracy.”

“Right.” John reflects on that for a minute.

He and Sherlock stare at each other.

“Well,” John offers, when Sherlock just looks baffled and increasingly uncomfortable. “This is awkward, isn’t it?”

* * *

It seems that Sherlock has decided to deal with the bizarre situation by pretending that their fictional counterparts don’t exist. John isn’t sure how well that strategy’s going to work in the long term, but that’s not his problem. As far as John is concerned, however, this might be the weirdest thing that has ever happened to him, yes, but it’s also potentially the most interesting. Yesterday morning John was contemplating the merciful properties of a bullet just to end the pointlessness, but today, for the first time since being discharged, he feels like he might just have found a reason to live again. He can take a little weirdness if he has to.

It’s also nice to know why Mike Stamford had looked like he’d had some kind of deeply personal revelation the day before, when John said he was looking for a flatmate, and why Mike had been so insistent that John and Sherlock meet.

Normally John wouldn’t be too sure about following a mad consulting detective onto a crime scene, especially since the police officer maintaining the perimeter seems to be hostile, but who can say no to the callings of destiny?

“Sherlock, who is this?” a harried man with grey hair demands. John braces himself.

“This is my colleague, Dr John Watson,” Sherlock intones gravely. “John, this is Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

“Oh Christ, tell me you’re pulling my leg.” D.I. Lestrade gapes at them in dismay.

“Sorry,” John says apologetically. “I am actually named Dr John Watson.”

“Oh, Jesus.” D.I. Lestrade runs a hand down his face. “Look, it was kind of amusing when I was promoted to D.I., and then a sort of creepy coincidence when I met the Great Detective here, but now he’s hanging about with a Dr John Watson? Are we living in a 19th century crime novel?”

“Apparently,” Sherlock says dryly.

“Christ,” the D.I. says again, and looks despairing. “Right. As long as we’ve got that sorted out, then. Greg Lestrade, Detective Inspector.” He offers a hand, and John shakes it firmly.

“Dr John Watson, ex-R.A.M.C.”

“He was in Afghanistan,” Sherlock adds.

Lestrade’s composure visibly wilts.

“If it helps, I’m finding this pretty strange myself,” John says sympathetically.

“Thanks, but it really doesn’t.”

“Enough socialising,” Sherlock snaps impatiently.

* * *

After examining the crime scene Sherlock seems to have forgotten he has a sidekick now, and rushes off to God-knows-where. John is warned off by Hostile Police Officer, who tells him to ditch Sherlock if he has any sense (although her actual wording is far more unpleasant).

“Thanks for telling me.” John smiles tightly. “But I think it’s too late for that.”

Shortly afterwards, John allows himself to be abducted. He’s going to have a lot to blog about.

The mysterious black car parks inside an abandoned warehouse – _where else_ would a mysterious abductor meet John? – and John steps out to see a middle-aged man in an expensive suit, leaning on an umbrella. His smile is smarmy and patently false, and his eyes are cold and give away nothing.

“Dr Watson,” the man says unctuously, and swings his cane at the chair sitting in the middle of the warehouse floor. “Have a seat.”

“I’d rather stand, thanks,” John responds, barely keeping it civil. Umbrella Man studies him – there’s no doubt that John is being assessed, although for what, John has no idea – and John keeps his back rigidly straight and doesn’t look away from the calculating glance.

Then, to John’s surprise, the man sighs.

“Dr Watson. I am Mycroft Holmes.”

_ Oh _ , John thinks, Sherlock’s government-employed brother. He wonders which branch of government, exactly, because last he checked, the public service weren’t this cloak-and-dagger.

“You’re on Wikipedia,” says John, in lieu of anything else.

Mycroft sighs again, looking distinctly pained.

“I am aware. Shall we cut to the chase, Doctor, and discuss the increasingly farcical nature of our place within the universe?”

“Fine by me,” John agrees. “You know, until last night I didn’t even know about the Sherlock Holmes books.”

“Quite.” Mycroft’s umbrella swings to and fro. “I have for several years accepted that by some unknown means my brother’s life, and those lives which he influences, are being shaped by a series of fictional stories written about a 19th century detective. As far as I have been able to determine, there is no circumventing this effect. Our lives are, it seems, predestined. As such, I have been waiting for some time for your inevitable appearance in Sherlock’s life.”

Mycroft pauses, but John says nothing. Mycroft continues on.

“Within Conan Doyle’s novels, Dr Watson is a fatuous but devoted friend and biographer of the fictional Sherlock Holmes. Everything I have seen in your files suggests that you will be the same. A little more competent, perhaps.” Mycroft gives a thin smile. “Dr Watson, if I might ask, what are your intentions towards my brother?”

John is still feeling a little offended at the ‘fatuous’ comment, but responds anyway.

“He’s brilliant,” he says at once. “Completely brilliant. Odd, and possibly a bit of a berk, but brilliant.”

“Hmm.” Mycroft gave John a long look. “I know the futility of fighting against destiny, so I will merely say this. While admittedly a genius, my brother is also difficult, unsentimental, and inclined towards inciting the rage of everyone he meets. You will be no exception. He plunges headlong into danger, enjoys it, and pays no heed to what is acceptable, or even legal. He will require your support, your friendship, and frequently, your intervention in the face of danger. If you fail, or ever betray him, you will have me to answer to. I hope I have made myself clear.”

“Pretty clear, yeah,” says John shortly.

“In that case, Anthea will take you where you need to go,” Mycroft says calmly. John looks around to see the attractive woman with the Blackberry waiting for him next to the car. John turns and begins to limp across the warehouse floor, but Mycroft calls after him.

“Oh, and one more thing, Dr Watson. I strongly suggest that you ‘google’ the name of James Moriarty. Forewarned _is_ forearmed.”

As John gets in the car, he wonders what the hell all that was about.

* * *

So, it turns out that fighting crime with Sherlock is awkward. _So_ awkward.

It’s fun and exciting and perilous as well, of course, but it’s hard to overlook the awkwardness. People titter when John or Sherlock introduce themselves, and half the time people assume they’re some kind of joke. The team at Scotland Yard aren’t much better – Greg isn’t too bad, because he’s in the books as well, but the rest of the Yarders take the mickey out of them with a vindictive glee, and despite the fact that Sherlock has proven himself over and over again, still don’t quite believe it’s not all some kind of trick, a giant con at the Met’s expense.

John feels awkward about it whenever he remembers. It’s a prickly, uncomfortable feeling, like sharing a lift with someone you’d gone to school with who you’d never known well but who had been there the day that you came to school hungover and threw up all over the maths teacher’s shoes, and now the two of you are trapped in the lift together _and you can’t think of anything else._ Only this is far worse.

Harry laughs like a hyena when John tells her, and continues to find it spectacularly funny if the drunken comments she leaves on John’s blog are any indication. John isn’t really sure what Sherlock thinks about it, because Sherlock likes to lock his emotions away behind his ‘sociopathic genius’ mask, and the number one rule at 221B Baker St is We Don’t Talk About The Fictional Characters Thing. 

John has to tell his therapist about it. It’s excruciating.

“You’re sharing a flat with Sherlock Holmes,” Ella says slowly, giving John the careful look she gets when she’s worried about the fragile state of John’s mental health, or something – fuck knows. “Who’s a consulting detective with Scotland Yard.”

“That’s right.”

John tilts his head and watches out of the corner of his vision as Ella writes something about – John works to decipher the upside-down hand writing – ‘possible delusions.’

Ella says that reading her notes upside-down like that shows a lack of trust, and indicates a state of constant suspicion. John says that he’d show more trust if she didn’t make those kind of notes.

Ella notices the direction of John’s gaze, and tilts the clipboard up a bit so John can’t see what she’s writing. Blast.

“I’m not mad,” says John. “”I know it’s ridiculous, but you can look it up – he’s got a website, The Science of Deduction, and we work with Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, he’s on the Scotland Yard website and everything. It freaks him out a bit so he tries not to think about it. Mycroft just said something about the futility of fighting against destiny.”

Ella stares hard at him. John wonders, with detached curiosity more than anything, if she’s about to have him committed. He should really care more than he does.

“You should contact Scotland Yard,” John tells Ella, giving her his placid, guileless face. “They can confirm what I’ve just said.”

After all, Sherlock would raise hell if anything happened to John, and destiny isn’t so easily thwarted.

* * *

The worst part, though, is being asked questions by the English lit. students.

“Are the two of you _together?_ ” blurts out one young lady.

John’s mind goes blank. He stares.

Sherlock gives his patented ‘impatient with stupidity’ glare. For once, it has no effect.

“Because,” the girl babbles on, “an alternative reading of the original texts by Arthur Conan Doyle suggests that Holmes and Watson were engaged in a homosexual relationship –”

“Oh my God.” John can’t believe this is his life.

The English lit. student isn’t deterred.

“–you have to remember the time period, the laws against sodomy and the discourse of–”

“ _I am not gay,_ ” John insists. He’s horribly aware of the Yarders smirking and snickering.

The girl opens her mouth to continue.

“Don’t be absurd,” Sherlock says, his tone cutting. “Just because _you’re_ still locked in the closet doesn’t mean that everyone else is. Your obsession with this topic is a thinly-veiled attempt to address your own homosexual preferences within a non-threatening medium, since you can’t actually admit their existence to yourself.”

English Lit. Girl stares in shock for about two seconds. Then she bursts into noisy tears.

“Bit not good, Sherlock,” John mutters, aware that he’s being a little hypocritical, since he mostly feels relieved that English Lit. Girl has finally stopped her embarrassing textual analysis.

“She deserved it,” Sherlock sniffs in disdain.

Donovan shoots both of them a nasty look.

* * *

“So,” Shan purrs, smirking, “I hear you call yourself Sherlock Holmes.”

“Actually,” John says from where he’s tied to a chair, “I call myself Dr John Watson.”

“Very amusing, I’m sure,” the woman sneers, “But you will tell me where the treasure is, Mr _‘Holmes.’_ No more of these silly games, whoever you _really_ are. Perhaps I should show you how serious this matter is: how seriously do you take the life of your pretty companion?”

John really, really hopes that Sherlock gets here soon.

Fortunately, he does.

* * *

The time that they were introduced to the concept of fanfiction is something John wishes he could erase from his brain entirely. Greg had been fairly amused until he was told about the existence of Lestrade/Mycroft fanfiction, and then he was just horrified.

Sherlock has since deleted the memory from his mind palace (the lucky bastard) but John is pretty sure that before he did, he sent his brother some of the worst examples of that ‘pairing.’ John doesn’t like Mycroft very much either, but he still thinks that was unnecessarily cruel.

* * *

And then, of course, there’s Moriarty.

John duly googled the criminal mastermind after his meeting/kidnapping with Mycroft, of course, and read all about Sherlock’s infamous arch-nemesis. According to the novels Moriarty was kind of the anti-Sherlock, an adversary who was just as brilliant as the consulting detective, but operating on the other side of the law. The original story with Moriarty in it had ended with Sherlock and Moriarty’s mutual destruction, but after a lit of public pressure Conan Doyle gave in and wrote a sequel in which Sherlock miraculously survived toppling down the Reichenbach Falls.

Ever since then, John’s been worrying about when Moriarty is going to show up in Sherlock’s life, and how it’s going to end – will Sherlock survive going up against the criminal genius, as in the later stories, or will he die thwarting Moriarty like Conan Doyle had originally planned? He knows Moriarty is definitely real – on the very first case he shared with Sherlock, the murderous cabbie had given the identity of the man financing him as simply ‘Moriarty.’ So really, it’s only a matter of time before Sherlock gets tangled up with him.

John is proven right when someone involves Sherlock in a twisted sort of game, where if he fails to solve the puzzles being set for him, some innocent person is blown up by the explosive vest they’ve been forced to wear.

Sherlock acts like he’s having the time of his life. John manages to endure this, until he doesn’t. They end up having a fight over whether Sherlock cares about any of the lives that are at stake. 

“Will caring about them help save them?” Sherlock asks pointedly.

“Then what about _yourself?_ Haven’t you looked up anything about the books? Don’t you know how this _ends?_ ” John demands.

Sherlock sniffs dismissively, and doesn’t look at him.

“Don’t be ridiculous, John. This is reality, not a quixotic gothic mystery novel.”

John stomps into the kitchen before he can do something he might regret later.

* * *

When the name Moriarty is mentioned, at the end of the fake Vermeer case, a nasty silence falls.

“What?” says Lestrade. “I’m sorry, did you just say ‘ _Moriarty?_ ’”

“Well, obviously,” says Sherlock. “Who else were you expecting?”

“Um,” says John. “We might just wait outside – come on, Sherlock–” He drags Sherlock from the room before Lestrade has time to build up the yelling that John can see coming.

Later he hears Donovan talking to Lestrade about Moriarty and Sherlock.

“And now some sick freak is playing along with his delusions!” Donovan snorts in disgust. “Or maybe it’s _all_ him – God knows.”

John pretends not to hear, because although it makes him furious to hear her running Sherlock down like that, even he agrees that the way Sherlock’s been behaving at the moment, it’s pretty hard to defend him.

* * *

It all seems to work out alright, though: they solve the cases, plus the thing with the Bruce-Partington Plans, and the only thing that’s left unresolved is the fact that Moriarty has only organised four cases for Sherlock to solve, when Sherlock is convinced that there will be five altogether. Still, John feels safe enough to make arrangements to see Sarah, and leaves Sherlock alone in the flat yelling exasperatedly at the television.

John should have paid more attention to the fact that Sherlock didn’t believe it was over. Although considering the day he’s had, being knocked unconscious and abducted by a homicidal mastermind ought to have been expected, really.

The first thought John has when he regains consciousness is, _I picked a really bad time to stop paying attention to narrative convention._ The second thought John has is that he should have known better than to assume that his day couldn’t get worse, as he discovers that he’s been strapped into a semtex vest. 

There’s an earpiece in his ear, and eventually he’s directed out to stand beside a public swimming pool, where Sherlock looks utterly shocked to see him, while a high-pitched voice drawls instructions in his ear.

Then Moriarty himself appears.

There’s a dramatic dialogue between him and Sherlock, and despite how fraught with peril the situation is, John can’t help thinking how ridiculously dramatic this all really is – they really _are_ living in a 19 th century novel. This sort of thing just doesn’t happen in _real life_.

Neither Moriarty or Sherlock are paying him much attention at all, too busy with their big dramatic conversation, and John finds himself suddenly immensely irritated that somehow this has become his life.

“You know,” John says to Moriarty, breaking into his and Sherlock’s exchange of quips (what is this, _Buffy_?), “you were a bit saner, in the books.”

“Books?” Moriarty’s eyebrows come together in puzzlement. “What are you talking about?”

John and Sherlock stare at him. There’s an awkward silence.

“Sherlock,” John says slowly. “He doesn’t know. About the books.”

“What _books?_ ” Moriarty interjects impatiently.

Sherlock studies him.

“You’ve never had much interest in fictional literature, especially not crime novels,” he says flatly.

“Of course not,” says Moriarty, wrinkling his nose. “Crime novels, always so emotional and unimaginative, and everyone in them is always so. _Boring!_ ”

“So you’ve never heard of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle,” Sherlock says in satisfaction. “The 19th century writer who invented the modern crime novel, through a series of books about the _fictional_ detective Sherlock Holmes, and his companion and biographer Dr John Watson.”

“Do you really expect me to believe this ridiculous story?” Moriarty asks superciliously. Sherlock gives a wintry smile.

“Send someone down to any major bookstore in Britain and chances are that at least one of Conan Doyle’s works are on the shelves, in either the classics or crime section,” Sherlock says. John gapes at him. As far as he knows, Sherlock has completely ignored the existence of the Sherlock Holmes books; except here he is, sounding like the introduction of a Wikipedia page. “Go on. Ask your snipers if any of them have ever read a Sherlock Holmes novel, or seen one of the films.”

Moriarty hesitates, watching Sherlock suspiciously, but Sherlock just looks coolly contemptuous.

“No? Never mind, you can always verify it later,” says Sherlock. “It’s not exactly true-to-life, of course: the details are laughably inaccurate, but all of the characters, all of the major plot points and themes – so far, they’ve all held true. If I were you, I’d look up Professor James Moriarty. I think you’ll find the information about him enlightening.”

Moriarty stares at him. There is a long, tense moment.

Then, as though to underscore the absurdity that is very much present despite the serious nature of their situation, the air is suddenly filled with the upbeat tune of _Stayin’ Alive._

John and Sherlock exchange bewildered, incredulous glances.

For a moment Moriarty tries to pretend that he doesn’t know where the music is coming from. Then he closes his eyes and sighs in pained exasperation.

“Do you mind if I get that?”

“No, no, please,” Sherlock says scathingly. “You’ve got the _rest of your life_.”

Ignoring the sarcasm, Moriarty pulls his phone from his pocket and answers it.

“Hello?” He pauses, listening to the person on the other end. “Yes, of _course_ it is. What do you want?”

‘ _Sorry_ ,’ Moriarty mouths at Sherlock apologetically. ‘ _It’s fine_ ,’ Sherlock mouths back sarcastically.

Moriarty rolls his eyes at whatever he’s hearing from the person on the other end of the phone, and then his expression freezes, suddenly intense.

“ _SAY THAT AGAIN!”_

John jumps at the sudden bellow, and glances at Sherlock to see him frowning in analysis.

“Say that again,” says Moriarty into the phone, in a soft, dangerous voice, “and know that if you’re lying to me, I will find you and I will _skin_ you.”

John and Sherlock exchange glances, wondering what’s going on.

“Wait,” Moriarty says, and lowering the phone turns and approaches John and Sherlock again.

He gazes at the bomb jacket, almost lost in thought, then raises his eyes to meet Sherlock’s.

“I hate to resort to clichés, Sherlock, but… as they say, ‘this isn’t over.’ ” He turns and begins to walk away from Sherlock and John. “You’ll be hearing from me, Sherlock.”

Before he leaves, Moriarty clicks his fingers with dramatic flair, and the red dots of the sniper’s laser sights vanish. Moriarty himself disappears through the door, and is gone.

There’s a long, tense moment, before John and Sherlock decide that Moriarty is really gone.

“I really, really _hate_ Arthur Conan Doyle, right now,” says John fervently, as Sherlock helps him rip off the explosive vest, and flings it away towards the pool. 

Sherlock doesn’t actually disagree.

“You know,” says John wearily, “if I’m the one doing all the narrating, why is that book called _The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes_? It should be called The Adventures of John Watson. I have as many adventures as you do. Whether I want them or not.”

“I think,” says Sherlock, “that we should call Lestrade, and go home.”

* * *

The next day all the papers have headlines like _SHERLOCK HOLMES COMES TO LIFE!_ and _REAL-LIFE MORIARTY IMPLICATED IN BOMBING AT BAKER STREET!_

“Oh, bloody hell,” sighs John. “Here we go.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure I like how it finishes, so I might alter it at some point, but... yeah. For now, it's been posted.
> 
> Also, you know, I think writing the scene with Mycroft was my favourite part?


End file.
